


Razors and the Dying Roses Plead (I Don’t Leave You Alone)

by PhoenixDragon



Series: The Unthinkable Verse [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, Horror, M/M, Mild Language, Multi, References to Suicide, Slash, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rory found himself wondering if this was some new form of self-harm, as the Doctor rarely touched anything unless he had to nowadays. He was always restless, always moving – his unshakable calm blown out like a candle. The Time Lord’s need to explore, that endless, curious drive to poke and prod and chatter dulled by what was missing.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Razors and the Dying Roses Plead (I Don’t Leave You Alone)

** _ The Unthinkable Series _ **

** 'Razors and the Dying Roses Plead (I Don't Leave You Alone)' **

**_____________________________________________________________________**  
 **A/N:** _Originally_ written for 's **Prompt:[Kiss](http://who-contest.livejournal.com/82413.html)** , but it got too big for its own britches. 

**All Other Warnings and Disclaimers to be found at Part One**   
**_____________________________________________________________________**

** ~Chapter One~ **

Rory got used to his bed being empty.

It took a while, though. 

The nights were always long and his dreams were always nightmares filled with flashes of red and maroon; but he slept, even if it wasn't always restful.

Three times…

That was how many times he could count on his fingers they had touched.

It was also how many times he could count on his fingers that his bed hadn't been empty since…

(Since the minute, hour, day, month she had died.)

It was hard to believe that had been three months ago. It was hard to believe that he still hadn't stopped to think about it, to _remember_...but he was too busy keeping his promise. 

He kept breathing. 

He kept _him_ breathing.

He didn't think the Doctor had tried to harm himself since that horrible day he found him dangling out of the open TARDIS door. He wasn't one hundred percent sure about that, but Rory hovered so close almost constantly that the Time Lord would be hard pressed to find time to try. The only time he would have to himself was when Rory slept. 

Rory didn't sleep much.

And he never slept for long.

He became obsessed with touching things: the TARDIS corridors, the tea cup he would drink from, the railings in the console room. He needed to find reality. He needed to ground himself and touching things that were there – things that were solid, things that kept him _here_ – was the only way he knew how.

The Doctor wouldn't let him touch him.

The alien was a tactile creature. He was always caressing the console, patting Rory on the shoulder, hugging Amy -

Well, he _used_ to be.

Rory found himself wondering if this was some new form of self-harm, as the Doctor rarely touched anything unless he had to nowadays. He was always restless, always moving – his unshakable calm blown out like a candle. The Time Lord’s need to explore, that endless, curious drive to poke and prod and chatter dulled by what was missing.

Rory had held him that long night three months before, patting and soothing him as they both pretended to sleep; the list of names burning a hole in his pocket even as he tried to reassure the other man the only way he knew how.

He had only touched him twice since.

Not for the lack of trying on his part.

Less than three days after that, he had touched the Time Lord's shoulder, leaning into him while he tried to see where the TARDIS landed (not that the TARDIS landing anywhere meant anything anymore, as they never stepped foot outside of Her doors). The Doctor reacted as if Rory had hit him - shying away with a full body shudder - his face filled with a sadness so vast, no mere Universe could contain it. It was as if he was trying to hold sorrow enough for the two of them and it filled Rory's heart with fresh pain, even as it left him empty.

So who was to say the Doctor hadn't succeeded? That he wasn't carrying that weight, that grief for both of them? It wasn't like Rory could stop and grieve. 

He never gave himself time to.

The Doctor tried to give him that time, once. 

He offered (two weeks, two days, five hours, three minutes and seventeen seconds after Amy breathed her last), to take him home. Had set the coordinates and everything.

That was the third time Rory had touched him.

That was when he _did_ hit him – when he punched the Doctor hard enough to send him straight to the floor.

As the Time Lord struggled to get back to his feet – dazed, bruise blooming bright on his jaw, blood curling from the side of his mouth – Rory knew he likely wouldn't get a chance to touch him again. And in that respect he was right. The Doctor had been back to his bed twice since that night they kept the dark at bay together, though Rory knew if he had reached for him…

He was never offered the chance to go home again.

The Doctor didn't make that same mistake twice.

And so the Doctor held onto their sorrow.

While Rory touched everything he could find.

He would have found it funny if he could hold a thought long enough to see the humor in it, but his mind was constantly rough and jumbled: like someone had taken all the contents inside and shook them vigorously until he couldn't find a single idea that held any meaning. There was only one thought that ever came in clear (besides the shaky memory of red and maroon and sightless eyes staring into the grey sky above). Only one...and it was an odd thought that wouldn't leave him alone. He obsessed over it, turning it over and over in his mind until it became one huge blur – a rhythm inside his head that rose and fell along with the hum of the TARDIS beneath his feet. A litany of images, of snapshots that blurred and sharpened depending on his level of exhaustion and ability to focus.

He could blame it on the lack of physical contact with anything that was alive - well, alive and _breathing_ , anyway - but sometimes he knew better. He knew why he held the thought close. It was close to (but not exactly like) the reason he kept the list of names the Doctor had written in his pocket. It was probably similar to the reason the Doctor would repeat those same names under his breath (over and over and over), when he believed Rory couldn't hear him. It was like a memory, but it was also like praying...it was like trying to hold something close, even as it slid away.

The thought-memory wasn't much. It wasn't even about anything _important_ , in the vast scheme of things. 

And oddly enough, it wasn't (completely) about his wife.

It was about the first time he had kissed the Doctor.

It had been a joke, really. A brief press of lips that had delighted Amy, flustered the Doctor and brought a flicker of a smile to his own lips before they had turned their attention back to her - their reason for being, their sole purpose for existence. Everything they did revolved around her. Everything they had meant to each other was about Amy. She was the sun and they were drawn in her orbit (and thereby, each other's) based on her whims alone.

When the Doctor wasn't there, it was just him and Amy. Their intimacy all encompassing, their eyes only for each other. There was only room for two.

But when the Doctor _had_ been there – 

There was always room for one more.

His presence hadn't taken away from _Them_ \- AmyandRory and RoryandAmy - and it had definitely added to the fun. His Amy had a wild side that couldn't be tamed and Rory was more than happy to indulge her. Strangely though, the Doctor being there, being part of it...it was just as intimate as when it was just the two of them. He was there and yet, he was removed – leaving them to be AmyandRory…RoryandAmy – 

Except for that _one time_. 

That one time when Rory himself couldn't stand how faded he was, how detached he was from Them. It had been a bad day for all of them and Amy had dragged the Time Lord to their bed, trying to find a way to show him how much he was a part of them, how much he meant to her and by extension, Rory. Even as the Doctor had made every excuse not to follow, even as he had tried to withdraw into himself and let the couple celebrate the fact that they were alive together, _as_ a couple (not a triple). Amy wasn't going to have it, though. She had pulled him into their room, ignoring his reluctance and he had stood there, lost and unsure of what to do with himself.

So Rory had gotten bold.

It had hurt (somewhere down deep), seeing the Doctor looking for all the world like he had wound up in the wrong place; like he didn't belong with Them. Rory couldn't think of any place the Time Lord belonged more at that time, in that that moment. When he was there, he was a part of who they were and a need to show him that burned fiercely in Rory's heart. He had snagged his fingers against the Doctor's sleeve, guiding him close with the merest brush of his hand. The Doctor had looked puzzled, but moved closer, smile hovering near his lips, though his hands stayed by his sides, reluctant to insert himself in what he considered a moment made for Two (though there was always, _always_ room for Three).

Amy had caught on quick, moving to one side to watch Her Boys, fingers brushing the Doctor's shoulder (encouraging, approving), head tilting in a nod when he threw a questioning glance her way. He relaxed then, shoulders easing, smile more than a mere shadow as he glance back at Rory - curiosity in the lines of his mouth and eyes, hands rising once before falling back to his sides, letting Rory show him what to do.

Rory had seen Amy smile from the corner of his eye, her face radiant with joy as he pulled the Doctor close, one hand on the Doctor's shoulder, the other hesitant, light on the Time Lord's jaw as he leaned in for a kiss. The Doctor seemed surprised, but made no move to stop him and Rory had found (at that moment, even now as he drowned in his grief), that he _wanted_ to kiss him. He was curious. He wanted what to see what the Time Lord would do. He wanted to taste, to feel what Amy had felt all that time ago when _she_ had first kissed the Doctor.

It was such a brief moment, really. 

He had pressed his mouth to the cool flesh of the Doctor's lips, pleased when the other man didn't flinch away. There was a light tingle, like a static electricity (though not as sharp as that sensation), the coolness of the Doctor's mouth pleasant against his own, the taste of him unique - but also not-unpleasant. 

He thought of pushing further, but faltered in his sudden bravery; shyness falling back around him like a cloak as he drew back, cheeks reddening as the Doctor looked at him with a species of awe; tip of his tongue coming out to trace where Rory's mouth had been. Then the moment (shatteringly brief, but beautiful in its own way), had been over and they went back to being the Doctor and Rory...with their Amy. The center of their world and the lynchpin of what they meant to each other. 

What held them together then. What held them apart now. 

When that moment was over, when they moved out of each other's spaces, they drew her back in, her eyes shining with joy and pleasure, Her Boys everything she had ever needed. Everything she had ever wanted.

That hadn't been the last time it had been the three of them as one. 

But it had been the first and last time he had ever kissed the Doctor.

Rory had no idea why it was circling his mind now. 

Why that memory was so, so _clear_ in the muddle mess his mind had become. He couldn't think beyond eating, sleeping, breathing (and keeping them both safe, can't forget safe); his thoughts a useless, mangled mess of one day blurring into another. He didn't even know when that memory had become a part of his internal litany. Maybe it always had been. He wasn't sure – but then he wasn't sure about a lot of things since –

 

 _"_ Get up _...Amelia...don't you do this!!"_

 _'_ I'm sorry...I'll take care of him...I promise _'_

_/Jack, Adric, Amy, Amy, Amy, AMELIA –/_

_"I could fall...forever...would you like that?"_

 

"All we have is each other," Rory murmured, the sound of his own voice startling him. All he ever heard nowadays was the hum of the TARDIS and occasionally (only when the Doctor thought he wasn't listening, only when he wasn't aware of Rory's presence), the never-ending list of names falling from the Doctor's lips. A whisper so faint you had to strain to hear it – but it never seemed to stop, something inside the Time Lord broken – leaving only the List behind. 

It let Rory know he was still there, that he had succeeded in keeping them both alive. But he felt like he was failing something else. It felt like he was failing _Amy_ , but he had no idea how to fix it. All he had were nights when he didn't sleep (and those awful nights when he did); his need to ground himself through the pressure of his fingers against something _anything_ ; the whispered List of the dead; the hum of the Machine through his feet and two memories that overlapped, technicolor bright as they fought for dominance in his mind. The memory of red, red, red and maroon – 

_Sightless eyes, grey sky, airships, and screaming that wasn't from the dead and dying, that wasn't issued from his own throat_ – 

and the memory of shockingly cool lips against his own...unresisting, letting him lead. Letting him give in or take away as he wished.

His mouth tingled with the memory, a constant buzz like an itch against the flesh there...and it dawned on him how he could maybe fix this. How he could fix them _both_ and solidify his promise to his wife. His dead wife who loved them in vastly different ways, but had wanted them to love each other any way they could. Even when she wasn't there to do it for them – to hold them close, cohesive, centered anymore.

Rory missed her so, so _much_. 

It left him gasping now…airless in an empty corridor that echoed with nothing but his own pain, his insides too raw with the void she left behind to cry around it, heart crushed (crushing) within his chest. Somewhere within that pain, he felt another emptiness bloom - the missing piece of his soul that was his wife was not the only part that ached with loss. There was something that had been created by her, a piece that had existed _because_ of her, that was now gone as well and it ached with a freshness that staggered him. 

Even as he now grieved the loss of the woman who had been his life, he was doubly burdened with the sorrow of losing that piece that connected him to the Doctor. 

He hadn't realized how much he had come to need that, too. How much he depended on the man that was so a part of her and everything he had fallen in love with about her. The Doctor was part of _Them_ and they had become part of _him_. He knew that now, he knew what he had failed at. 

He also knew how he had to fix it. 

He couldn't fill in the missing piece of Amy (impossible, unthinkable), but he could honor her. He could show her spirit that he knew now, what she had intended him to do. How he could keep their memory of her alive within themselves. 

How they could show her they still loved her (and always would).

He just had to breathe past this moment…

It took a long time.

Rory shook himself steady what felt like hours later, but could have (in real time) been only a few minutes; his sense of time as skewed these past three months as his sense of reality. He held onto the message that had been left by his wife's ghost: the memory of cool lips, the sensation of awed happiness in the _feeling_ of that memory guiding him down the corridor, knowing (always, always) where he would find the Time Lord. 

All he had to do now was show _him_ the memory.

All he had to do was show him what they _could_ be to each other, if the Doctor would let him. They could be their own lynchpin, they could forge their own path. All Rory had to do was lead the way (and hope the Doctor would follow).

Rory found him just as he thought he would, wandering like a ghost within his own realm, his faded presence a pain of a different sort. He was between the worlds, a spirit of only half of his own making (the other half long gone in a flash of maroon and red, red, red). The Doctor's voice was a hoarse whisper as he ran (endlessly) through the list of Names, each utterance rubbing him away from this existence; an excruciatingly slow, agonizing death of everything he was/had been/could be. 

He hadn't stopped harming himself at all. 

He had just found a way to do it without being caught at it, taking the path of torturous, least resistance.

Rory ached for him – a fresh throb that caught him off guard and slowed his advance. 

He paused at the bottom of the console stairs, watching as the Doctor drifted from one instrument to another, hands hovering but never touching, lips gray and cracked as he muttered to himself, anxiety and sorrow burned into the pale lines of his face. He flickered from the various panels, to the steps that led to the engines; a never-ending pattern that looped in and around itself as it had for weeks. Rory had just been too foggy to see it. 

Rory had thought he had been alone. 

The only one to reach out to give comfort. 

But now that he could think clearly, he remembered all the times he had come to the kitchen, hunger driving him to eat, only to find a full plate of his favorite foods waiting for him. When he would lay down, body too exhausted to continue, the sheets would always be fresh, covers turned down, pillows fluffed waiting for his weary head. If he fell asleep in his clothes he would wake up with a new set neatly folded near the bed, pajamas covering him instead of the tee-shirt and jeans he had crawled into bed with. 

All this along with a dozen other, little things that couldn't be explained by just the TARDIS alone.

While he had been watching, keeping the Doctor alive as best as he could - the Doctor had been doing the same for him; overcoming his new (wrenching) aversion to touch to keep Rory warm, fed, comfortable as best as he could. 

Then he would come back here...and he would list his failures as a reminder.

He was just waiting for Rory to get tired of it - of this half-life, of this drifting existence - and leave him. 

Then there would be no one to care for.

Then there would be no one to care.

And that part of Them (RoryandAmy, AmyandRory) would die with only his voice left to echo down corridors long abandoned by his presence. 

Rory's heart faltered for a moment, the burst of energy that drove him here draining away, his skin prickling with cold. 

The Doctor was just waiting, remembering and hanging in by a thread.

Rory could only hope he wasn't too late, even as his heard his name whispered along with dozens of others (the Doctor's fingers hovering, floating over the controls of his Girl), his voice raw and thin with constant use. It was hard to swallow around that, but it was easy to find strength; the sound of his name listed amongst all those that the Time Lord had lost jolting him back into action.

' _I'm here. I'm right here. I'm sorry. We need each other, I see that now._ She _showed me, She helped me_ see _...let me fix this, let me save us._ '

He tried to not think as he put himself in the Doctor's path. Thinking wouldn't serve him now. Thinking was what made him hesitate all that time ago in that room with just the three (two of them), him and the Doctor seeing each other, actually _seeing_ (Amy's light used to dazzle and distract). Thinking was what left him staggering from one day to the next, his mind muddied and lost within snapshots of nothingness and bright bursts of technicolor. 

Thinking was his worst enemy. It would leave him walking away to live a dead life and it would leave a dead Doctor, living on because that was the only thing he knew _how_ to do when you stripped away everything that truly mattered.

So Rory put himself in the Doctor's path, a renewed sense of purpose, a renewed sense of self (a new way of _seeing_ himself) and the happiness of his dead wife pushing him to save them both. Maybe find something alive within the wake of her death. He planted his feet and waited for the Doctor to see him, hope bleeding through the grayness of his blood when the Doctor's endless dance faltered, tired eyes lighting on his face as his shuffling stride skittered to a halt. He looked at Rory without really seeing him, his gaze dull and faded, lips still churning out hosts of syllables that led to names, but had become a blur of pain that no longer really made sense.

The Time Lord looked confused, narrow fingers drifting up to hover over Rory (not quite touching) as if the Doctor needed to assure himself he was still there. Relief flickered in the other man's eyes when he glanced Rory over; then awareness faded again, that relentless muttering rising and falling in pitch as he went to move around him, his pattern so ingrained, Rory was quite sure it was the only thing that kept him breathing.

"Doctor," Rory rasped, his voice just as thin and exhausted (though for quite the opposite reasons). It was time for _him_ to talk now, it was time for him to make himself heard, even if it wasn't just with his voice. The Doctor had voiced enough sorrow for the both of them. It was time for him to listen to the hope Rory had discovered. It was time for him to be shown the secret Amy had tried to whisper to them every day when she was alive. The secret that had eluded him for so long after her death. She had been what had held them together for the longest time.

She had also been what had held them apart.

"Rory..." The Time Lord sighed, fingers rising to hover over Rory's eyes, his mouth, his chest before falling away again. "Amelia Jessica Pond, Rory Arthur Williams -"

"Doctor," Rory pleaded, stepping closer to keep him from running (or shuffling) away.

The Doctor startled again, licking his lips as he eyed Rory with suspicion, bracing for a blow or a kick - his whole body stiff as he waited for anger or some other violent display; taking Rory's clarity, his steadiness as something that boded ill, his entire being on guard. 

But he didn't move away.

Rory found his heart breaking all over again – but instead of letting it paralyze him, instead of letting it deter him - he used it as a source of strength. This had gone on long enough. They had punished themselves enough. It was time to find their Amy again. It was time to find their guide to each other and start anew.

He shook his head as he reached for the Time Lord, fingers brushing the tweed of the Doctor's jacket, catching in the material and tugging as he tried to propel him closer. 

The Doctor flinched at his touch (though he didn't pull away this time), the list of names stuttering to a stop as he licked his lips nervously, trying to puzzle out what Rory's intent was, even as he obeyed the subtle directive. He let his eyes drop as he moved forward, hands rising for a moment (hovering, hovering) before falling limply back to his sides, eyes fluttering closed as he got within mere inches of Rory. That awful murmur started up again as Rory's fingers slid up his jacket sleeve, gripping his shoulder (the touch everything Rory needed to ground him, to anchor him to _now_ ). The Doctor was _there_. He was solid - a real living, breathing presence. 

They weren't dead. _Part_ of them had died. Part of Them (AmyandRoryandtheDoctor) had died three months ago, but there was still part of Them (RoryandtheDoctor, theDoctorandRory) that was alive. They just had to find a way to be alive together.

"Doctor," Rory Arthur Williams whispered. " _Doctor_...remember -"

And he leaned in for that Kiss. 

The one that he had started and never finished so long ago and only just yesterday.

He expected the Doctor to yank away. He expected him to protest. He expected him to push him off, or even hit him...but the Doctor always did the unexpected, just when you counted on it most. 

Just when you needed it most.

His mouth met lips that tingled with coolness, that tasted unique and new and wonderful in their strangeness.

Rory didn't know what he had expected (maybe the taste of Amy?) but then, maybe he hadn't expected anything at all - just the feel of the Doctor's lips (however fleetingly), against his own. He hadn't really thought beyond that. He hadn't really allowed himself to. 

But Rory was surprised (and more than a little relieved) when the Doctor not only allowed the touch, but leaned into it (hesitant, disbelieving), but aware and so, so _alive_. He mirrored his stance from that long ago memory, the fingers of one hand curled into the rough tweed of the Doctor's jacket, palm of the other hand brushing lightly against the Doctor's jaw. Not held there, not restricting...not this time. This time his hand was guiding, inviting the Doctor for more (if he wanted it), reminding him of what Rory had intended all that time ago. What he was never brave enough to ask for.

He let his fingers brush across the hollow of the Doctor's cheek, cupping the corner of his jaw as he moved for more; ready to pull away if that was what the Time Lord wished, but open if the other man wanted to go further...if he _remembered_. The Doctor paused for only a moment, lips lingering on Rory's own for a beat of time before he leaned back in, letting Rory guide them through - allowing Rory to finish what he had started.

It was soft, sweet - a mere brush of their lips as they breathed one another in, as they remembered the One Who Was No Longer. But all too soon (or maybe, not soon enough), they were holding each other up: the Doctor's hands clutching the front of Rory's shirt, as Rory let his fingers tangle in the Time Lord's hair. It was as soft as he had imagined all that time ago, the strands like cool silk against his fingers as he held him close, as he anchored the Doctor with his mouth and the touch of his hands. The Doctor whimpered into the glide of their lips, and though Rory wasn't sure who had yielded first, he found the heat inside the Doctor's mouth was a pleasurable shock, belying the coolness of those lips.

They kissed as if their lives depended on it (and maybe they did). They kissed as if nothing else existed (and Rory was sure that nothing else could). The kisses were firm, slightly rough - but not rushed - as they learned one another; the caress of the Doctor's tongue along his own leaving his nerves humming, his skin tight with tension. 

He pressed everything he wanted to say into those kisses. Everything that mattered, everything they could mean (did mean, would mean) into the push-pull of his mouth against the Doctor's. The Time Lord responded in kind – intense, but not frantic - their combined movements languid and relaxed now, no longer the pushing (but not hurried) clash they had started out as.

Soon (too soon), it was over - the sweet hum of their mouths slowing to a stop, though they were reluctant to let go of one another. Rory pulled back first, sliding his mouth along the Doctor's jaw to leave a light kiss there, reassurance and longing (for his Amy, for Their Doctor); leaving his lips to linger for a moment (just a moment). His mouth tingled with the memory (then and now) of the those cool lips, the ache a pleasure that eased some of the darkness in his soul. He wasn't fixed, he wasn't _complete_ (he knew he never would be), but he felt lighter. 

He felt better.

He felt like he was saving them both...just as he had promised.

The Doctor leaned into him, shoulders shaking with suppressed grief - eyes shining with wonder (and not just a small touch of sorrow).

"Rory," he breathed, fingers of one hand releasing Rory's shirt to flutter over his own lips before, renewing (tightening) his grip – as if Rory would disappear if he fully let go. "Rory...is this-is this goodbye?"

Such relief and horror in his gaze as he asked the inevitable, as he asked for Rory's _permission_ -

"No, Doctor," Rory replied, heart still heavy even as it filled with hope, his mouth aching to kiss him again, to say all the things that words couldn't touch. He wanted to show him it was okay to be the Saved and not the Savior. That sometimes, to save someone else, you had to allow yourself to be saved first. All you needed was a little hope, a little mercy and a lot of love. His voice was thick with all these truths as he held him tighter, his words filling in the cracks his physical presence couldn't touch. "No, Doctor, this is hello. This...this is _Alive_."

He allowed himself to be held, let his hands acquaint themselves with the solidness that was the Doctor. And the Doctor allowed himself to be held, to let himself be _real_ in the arms of a man he believed he had wronged.

Most nights (still) Rory's bed was empty. 

He had gotten used to that, as horrible as that was.

But he discovered his heart was not empty, it never had been. He just had to find the extra room that was already within it.

They were no longer Three (AmyandRoryandtheDoctor): they were Two once more. They weren't the same Two of Before, but it could be just as good. And a lot of times (most of the time) it was.

But when the night breathed heavy and they felt lost even within each other, they could always reach inside themselves for their third. Amy was no longer the lynchpin that held them closely apart. She was no longer the anchor and glue of what they could become: but thoughts of Her, the memory of Her brought comfort and contentment (even if no small amount of pain). Even when She was gone, leaving them as Just Two (RoryandtheDoctor, theDoctorandRory), the hope and love She left behind was always there, even as She was just out of reach.

Occasionally they looked for Her.

Too often they found each other.

All it took was memory and a Kiss.


End file.
